


Break Nature

by korik



Series: Hail Converted, Hell is for Thee [2]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Body disconnect, Character Study, Cyborgs, Gen, Manipulation, Memory Alteration, Sex Talk, Working Out My Feelings Through Fic, Working out headcanon, sensory loss, sex disconnect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 18:34:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2078757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/korik/pseuds/korik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More cyborg feels, me working out how the nano/cyborg system/conversion works, and the repercussions they don't want to talk about.<br/>I'm sorry Raiden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break Nature

It's an unspoken rule - never question, never touch, never bring up to the converted about the state of their bodies. The state of their sexual activity or lack thereof. After all, with the advent of the nanos, pain suppressants, god-suppress everything, of course they don't feel anything, right? It's personal business, doesn't effect the general populace.

_Lies._

The records are altered; no one talks how those who have the urges before and after conversion still feel. Even those with full body conversions, their grey matter swells and aches when they use the given optical sensors, reacting to the pain of muscle memory, against the sensory depravation - no one records them going mad from it, peeling out the circuits in an attempt to feel again, find the magic switch buried in the reinforced frames, the literal prisons they have subjected themselves to, for one reason or another.

Some kill themselves because the echoes grow too strong, the mind pretends too much, and the nanos change it right back again, pushing upon the user the sensation of being on a roller coaster ride, non existent stomach rocking with nausea, with the stinging of perpetual, omnipresent memory. They know what they want, become fixated, and violence outputs spike into the hundreds of petty incidents, to unprovoked manslaughter, self abuse, domestic violence.

There is no high, no low, but the mind knows there should be. So how do you know if it is right or wrong anymore when you can't feel, can't hear the scream in its ragged glory?

He laughs, it's too early for the brain to hiccup, a frog dimly spasming in boiling water, staring at the ticking numbers emblazoned on the delicate fake corneas of his eyes. "Not better than coffee." There's no comfort in his bed as he rolls over, nothing to say soft, close, his nose picking out the parts per million that contain the scent his mind remembers he loved, clawing in his casing for the idea, the sensation that remains halted.

_A clot in the system, too much buildup and you could just fall over and die one of these days._

It's terrifying, he can't even dream anymore and, despite what his mind says when he wakes, he feels empty. He doesn't look between his legs anymore though his mind reminds him to, says to clean, says to wash, says - s- _s-says t-t-to_

_wa s h_

_S y s t e m_

_Co rrec tion_

 

He forgot why.


End file.
